


Pinball Wizard

by sinspiration



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-02
Updated: 2012-08-02
Packaged: 2018-04-03 16:39:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4107775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinspiration/pseuds/sinspiration
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While forced to work for Loki, Clint had to stay 'on' and vigilant the entire time. Now that Loki is gone...Clint doesn't know how to turn off again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pinball Wizard

Clint gritted his teeth and forced himself to focus. Battle was over, the good guys had won again, hip hip hooray, he’d been lucky this time and had only gotten  _minorly_  battered, and now it was time to sit still in the debriefing room like a good little soldier. Just a little longer, he could leave and climb into a vent or something, distance himself for a little while. Maybe the target range. Shooting always narrowed his focus, even as it enhanced it.  
  
He clenched his fists to keep from bringing them up to rub at his eyes and tried to tune out the foot-tap thing Tony always did when he was thinking up lines to annoy Fury in particular, the sound of Bruce rubbing one of his thumbs over the other, the fact that he could see Thor’s hair moving gently out of the corner of his eye, a few strands being blown around by an air vent.  
  
It never used to be this bad. He could turn it off, or at least tone it down. Hyper awareness was  _for_  battle, and he had to make the conscious effort to enter into the state. It didn’t belong in the every day workings of the more-normal world, the one where he wasn’t fighting for his life and twitching his fingers at shadows was frowned upon. His body knew it, his brain knew it, and the whole of him kept his ability tamped  _down_  during downtime.  
  
Or at least, that was before. Before Loki, before the mind-control and the half-waking nightmare, before he’d spent hours to days being on all the time, because that’s apparently what having “heart” meant, that’s what Loki needed him for, to be all-hearing and all-feeling and all- _seeing_  which was fine if someone else was pulling the strings but it was really. Fucking. Irritating.  
  
“Barton.”  
  
Clint’s eyes snapped to the front again. “Yeah, Cap’n?”  
  
Steve frowned. “Is there anything you see fit to add?”  
  
“The robots started pulling to the left once they had any damage done to them,” Clint rattled off. “Something to check for in the scrapped ones we salvaged. They fired in patterned shots, so clearly pre-programmed without much thought for real battle yet. Probably deployed as a last ditch-effort when we raided the base, not that it matter’s much now. Natasha’s got at least a bruised bone in her foot, maybe a broken toe, that she doesn’t want anyone to know about, Tony’s about two minutes away from pissing Fury off, and you should talk to your costume team about your left sleeve if the elbow’s too tight.” He paused, eyes darting back and forth for a second before he pushed to his feet. “Fuck. Sorry, are we done?”  
  
Natasha was staring at Steve’s left arm. The rest of the team was staring at him.  
  
“Yeah,” he said a fast beat later, before anyone else could speak up. “I’m gonna. Go. Stuff to do. Need a proper cool-down.” He left the room as fast as he could without running, pretending to ignore the calls for him to return that he could hear only too clearly.

After a minute of walking in the halls  _they’re sleeping together, she’s on her third cup of coffee, he’s a bit too attached to that gun, that guy on bridge two should tie his damned shoelace_  he switched directions. Target practice would be nice, but it wouldn’t be isolated enough this time of day. Instead he backtracked, ducked down a hallway, grabbed the first exposed pipes he saw, and made his way into the areas of the base only really traveled by him.  
  
He ended up going deeper than usual, to escape the noise, the mix of sights, and just sat for a while, eyes closed, breathing deep. Closing his eyes helped, even if the lack of sight made him even more aware of the sounds  _clanks and whistles, still air, distant footsteps_  and smells  _man he bumped into before had just taken a cig break, ash and dirt of his clothes, faint smell of metal, his own blood_  around him.  
  
Sleep would be good. When he slept, things turned  _off_. He rarely dreamt now, either blackness or nightmares, and the former was worth risking the latter. If he could manage to get back to his room without running into too many people…he could use the crawlspace for most of it  _solid metal under his fingers, voices floating up through the cracks_  
  
Or he could just stay here for a little bit. He was comfortable and mostly calm. Just needed a break from people.   
  
The break turned into most of the evening, and it was only the thought of curling up in his soundproof room with the lights off that forced him to move again, picking his way through crawlspaces and vents in the most direct and stimulation-free route he could make.  
  
Natasha was waiting for him in his room, sitting in the one chair, her feet propped up on his bed.  
  
“Tasha,” he said.  
  
“Clint,” she said, nodding. “You look like hell.”  
  
“I know,” he said. “Going to sleep it off.” He shrugged out of his quiver and set it down carefully before grinning at her. “The good Captain make you go to medical?”  
  
She rolled her eyes. “You know he did.”  
  
“And?”  
  
“Bone bruise, nothing broken.”  
  
He pulled his shirt over his head and turned away from her to throw it in the hamper. “Half-right then,” he said. “Not bad.”  
  
“Clint.”   
  
“Yeah?” He didn’t bother to look up, instead taking off his pants and tossing them in the hamper to join his shirt. See if either thing could be salvaged.  
  
“His sleeve. Really?”  
  
Clint shrugged and went over to his bed. Natasha lifted her feet so that he could get under the covers. “The seam kept pulling. It was bothering me. And you know now that I called him on it, someone’s going to look into the issue. Can’t have the Captain fighting in a suit that doesn’t fit.”  
  
Natasha looked at him, but didn’t say anything besides, “Get some sleep, Clint,” before rising gracefully and heading toward the door.  
  
“Plan on it,” Clint said. “You wanna hit the lights?”  
  
In reply, the room was plunged into darkness as the door clicked shut.  
  
Clint lay back under the covers, closed his eyes, and tried to stop thinking for a little while.

\---

The next morning, Clint got up a little earlier than usual so as to ensure that the range would be empty. He needed to unwind a little. Badly.  
  
He swung by the mess hall to grab some fruit and a couple power bars. Eyed the coffee pot for half a moment before, like usual, deciding against it. Wasn’t like he needed the extra stimulation.  
  
The range was blessedly empty, and he lost himself to a good few hours of meditative shooting, the world narrowed down to that single, tiny target. This was when everything all synced up and made sense and  _mattered_ , just like they were supposed to.   
  
He kept at it until he felt on the brink of shaky, covered in the sweat of a good workout, ready for a shower and a real meal. It was a little weird that no one else had come in, it now being almost afternoon, but he wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth.  
  
He gathered up his arrows and went to take a quick shower, slinging a towel over his shoulders as he walked back into the range. It was suddenly almost full, and Clint frowned not at the sudden onslaught of people, but at how fast the place had filled up. Like they’d been waiting for him to leave or something.  
  
Then he noticed the tension in nearly everyone’s shoulders as he quickly walked past them—and met Natasha and Steve talking quietly right outside the door.  
  
Steve turned to him before Clint could say anything. “Tony invited the team out for lunch,” he said.  
  
“You’re free,” Natasha added, cutting off Clint’s excuse before it could happen. He gave her the stink-eye and shifted his bow.  
  
“Sure,” he said. “Lemme stash my stuff.”  
  
They followed him over to the locked where he stored his practice weapons, Natasha watching closely as he put his things away.  
  
“This is payback for your foot, isn’t it,” he murmured.  
  
“Of course not,” she replied without moving her lips.  
  
“All set?” Steve asked.  
  
“Yeah,” Clint said, glancing down so that Steve wouldn’t see his eyes tracking fast. Steve had just come from a workout himself, his hair was still wet and the deodorant smelled fresh applied, Natasha hadn’t done her impossible stretching routine yet for some reason and she was annoyed at having put it off this long, Clint wondered why she was even going to lunch at all when she could be doing that instead. “Sure. Let’s go.”  
  


\-----

  
Going along quietly had been a mistake. He should have said he’d had paperwork to finish. Begged off for a nap. Anything.  
  
Tony had decided to make it a ‘thing’ to try a new food he’d never had before every so often and make it a team activity. This time it was Ghallaba. Clint greatly suspected Tony had chosen it because it was pretty much impossible to pronounce. And while Tony and Thor’s attempts were hilarious, he could have gladly missed them for anything but being in a crowded restaurant, regardless of the private table.   
  
He tried to keep his focus on the group at least, Tony’s hand resting lightly in the small of Bruce’s back as the other man ordered, since he was the only one who could pronounce anything properly, the fading bruise on Steve’s forearm, the fact that one of the legs on Thor’s chair was slightly too short. He swallowed as his eyes flickered to their waitress, it clear that the woman had just recently learned she was pregnant, her outfit colorful to the point of garish when it mixed with the restaurants décor, the upbeat, instrumental background music, the undercurrent of people talking  _smells of all the food being made something had just been rescued from burning food safe but pot a touch scorched tablecloth rough enough to catch on his calloused fingers a strand of Nat’s hair was out of place and she had to preoccupied with something important Banner kept shifting in his seat he was wearing new clothes, expensive clothes, not comfortable in them yet a present from Tony, Thor was too large, dominating the table light bright noise dim but steady, steady undercurrent of not-quite-nonsense there was a fly on the wall thirty feet to his right he could hit it dead-on hands twitched for his bow_  
  
Clint clapped a hand to his forehead, pressing his thumb and forefinger into his eyelids, tried to breathe slowly and drown something  _out_  and damn it, damn Loki for not letting him be able to turn it  _off._

“Barton? S’matter?” And shit, Tony wasn’t someone who ever let things go and they couldn’t  _know_  about this Clint could still do his job.  
  
“Headache,” he bit out. Felt/heard Tony placing a hand on the table and leaning forward to scrutinize, because the man wasn’t stupid and could see a lie when it was this fucking obvious. “I need to—” He pushed out of his chair and stood, the world tilting and shifting,  _too loud too bright too real_ clutched at the table as his legs just folded up against his will, each clang of silverware hitting the floor another. Painful. Stab.  
  
Several things happened at once, that much Clint could tell even with his eyes shut. The waitress ran over and Tony loudly deterred her until she went away again, Steve and Natasha ran to his side and it was Thor who was the reason he hadn’t hit the floor hard, hands were warm and fucking huge,  
  
“That does not seem to be a mere ache, my friend.” Thor murmured. Clint was greatful he’d had the sense of mind to speak quietly because fuck, the guy could use an indoor voice. Even speaking at what could be considered normal levels, the enunciation was just—  
  
Clint forced himself to breathe easy without it looking like he had to work on it, and managed to pull his hands away to meet someone’s eyes. Banner’s.  
  
“Have you tried using a deprivation chamber?” he asked, the same halting, nervous lilt that belied the freaking Steven Hawking that was his mind.  
  
“A what?”  
  
“A sensory deprivation chamber,” Banner said. “It’s a dark, soundproof box filled with water for a person to float on. It takes away distractions. They’re used for meditation. I tried them a few times in,” a minute pause, “In the beginning.”  
  
Fuck that sounded amazing. “And these work?”  
  
Banner gave him that beatific smile. “Not for what I needed it to, but they are very relaxing. They just, you know, let nothing touch you for a while.”  
  
“It might help, Clint,” Natasha said.  
  
“If it will alleviate your pain,” Thor agreed, still holding  _on_  to him and Clint was hyper aware of every single point of touch “Then this is something you most definitely must try.”  
  
Steve thought about saying something, but stayed silent. It was Banner who added, “It’s worth the try. Tony has one.”  
  
Tony blinked, glared at Banner, eyes darted to Clint, and pulled out his phone, rapidly typing something out. “Yeah,” he said. “Sure I do. In three hours.”  
  
“One.” Natasha said. Tony grinned at her.  
  
“Sure,” he said. “One. Why the hell not.” Not looking up from his phone, he waved the waitress back over, pulled out his black card, and shoved it at Bruce. “We’ll take everything to go,” he said. “Handle that, would you? I’m a little busy speed-buying a sensory deprivation chamber.”  
  
Bruce got to his feet and went to talk to the unhappy looking woman. Clint could only imagine what a picture they made, two giants, two geniuses, a gorgeous woman, and him, all kneeling on the floor surrounded by spoons. Steve pressed a hand on his shoulder before standing as well, going over to join Bruce in apologizing.  
  
“C’mon,” Tony said, “Let’s get up and go. We can eat back in my place, I can have Jarvis rig up a nice, felt-lined room, and we can all sit in the dark and try to feed each other. Person with the fewest stains wins. Bonus points if it turns into a food orgy.”  
  
Thor looked a little too intrigued by this suggestion, so Clint stood up by himself, spent another minute absolutely refusing to be carried out of the restaurant because  _no_  he could walk fine thanks just the same which meant both Tony  _and_  Thor pouted on the way over to Stark Towers, but the majority was on his side so they could deal with Natasha and Steve if they wanted to argue.  
  
Clint kept his eyes shut for the ride over, focusing on the sounds of his team.

\---

Lunch was a lot more bearable without the restaurant’s atmosphere. It helped being in Tony’s sealed and controlled home. Thor and Steve kept “sneaking” him worried looks, but after a few minutes, Tony decided that talking needed to happen and he started an exhausting, albeit quiet, conversation with Bruce about something Clint could never begin to understand. Natasha got roped into discussing ballet with Thor, who wasn't sure if Jane would like it, and Steve seemed to have an uncanny knowledge of it himself, giving his own points.  
  
For his part, Clint stayed quiet, ate his food, and let the words rush over him. His headache was still there, a constant, dull pounding that he didn’t think was ever going to leave him, but at least he could place it on the backburner.  
  
There were at least seven different spices used in his food, he’d probably be able to name them if he had any culinary expertise—  
  
Thor was using a shampoo with a minty, sweet smell, like vanilla mixed with mint, maybe something else too, or the shampoo was one and the conditioner was the other because Thor probably took the extra time for that—  
  
Steve always tapped his knuckles on his mouth when he was working over whether or not he had something to say—  
  
Bruce was nodding at something Tony was saying, but his eyes kept darting to the right, like his mind was half-on something else, and how could he even  _think_  about thinking of other things on top of the tech-babble Tony was happily subjecting him to—  
  
Twenty-six, twenty-seven, twenty-eight different weapons at his immediate disposal, nine more if you counted furniture that was just heavy enough to be impractical, three that Natasha would be able to make way better use of than he could, ten more if he was given the three seconds it would take to cross the distance to reach them—  
  
Clint fought the urge to just clap his hands to his temples, instead bringing one up slowly to rub at the side of his head. While maybe closing his eyes. He could feel the shift of bodies as everybody turned to look at him again.  
  
“I’m fine,” he grumbled.  
  
“No, you’re not,” Natasha said evenly. She shifted again, the direction to face Tony. “Is that chamber finished yet?”  
  
“JARVIS,” Tony said. “Update me on the construction for the sense-dep.”  
  
“Yes sir.” A moment passed, presumably for JARVIS to ask the contractors what was going on. Clint wondered if JARVIS freaked them out, any.  
  
“Sir, they say that construction is just about complete. Ten more minutes for finishing touches.”  
  
“Awesome. Okay, Barton, you finished? It looks like you're finished. Ten minutes gives you enough time to get your suit on and stuff, and then I can show you down.”  
  
Clint opened one eye. “I don’t carry bathing suits on me, Stark.”  
  
Tony actually laughed. “That would be why I bought you one.” He jerked a thumb towards the bathroom. “Robe’s in there too, for the trip. The towels are already downstairs.”  
  
Clint nodded in thanks and pushes up from the table. He didn’t shake like before, but Thor put a hand on his shoulder anyway. It’s…not unwelcome. Opening his eyes now was just an influx of  _info_  and his body was trying to be battle-ready at the same time and always aware he can swear he can hear the hair whisper across Nat’s face, Thor’s hand warm and heavy and at least somewhat grounding   
  
He had no idea whether or not Thor thinks this is a weakness or something. Can’t tell what Steve was thinking either. Tony probably was half-amused, half-trying to help. Tasha’s worried. Bruce…also seemed worried. “Thanks,” he said. He stepped away from Thor’s hand and walked to the bathroom. He wasn’t going to think too hard about the fact that Tony’d bought him a bathing suit. Or that it was probably going to fit perfectly.  
  
He just really wanted this chamber thing to work. Even for a little while. Enough to get his head clear so he could focus long enough to work on fixing this for good.

\---

He was surprised when Thor, Tony, and Steve made no move to follow him when he was ready to go, but he was grateful for it. He’d kinda had enough of them worrying about this as it was. Steve looked contrite, as if he had needed some convincing, but all he did was give Clint a concerned look before turning back to whatever it was Tony was pulling up on his giant television screen.  
  
Natasha briefly put a hand on his shoulder as Bruce led them to where Tony had had the chamber constructed. Clint was…not at all surprised that Bruce knew exactly where it was. He doubted that he would have been, even if he wasn’t in observation-overtime.   
  
The chamber itself was not exactly what Clint had in mind. First of all, it wasn’t just a chamber; it was a  _room._  That had steps to climb to get into it, so that the water was contained at level. He glanced at Bruce, who shrugged.  
  
“I wasn’t the one who bought it,” he said. “You’ll have to ask Tony. It’s very nice, though. Much nicer than the ones I’ve used.” By his tone, Clint could tell that he probably planned to use it in the future. But Clint got first try.  
  
“Okay,” he sighed. Might was well get this over with. His head was buzzing again and he just wanted a break. That was all he needed.  
  
He took off his robe, hung it on the hook, and stepped in, closing the door behind him. It was pitch dark as soon as he did, the water ankle deep. He felt along the wall and walked forward a little; the water level rose gradually as he did. Eventually it was up to his waist and he figured this as good as anything. He turned onto his back and got into dead-man’s float.  
  
It was completely quiet, the only sounds were his breathing and the occasional lapping of the water. Pitch dark. A faint tinge of chlorine and nothing else. He could see why this could be relaxing, even if it felt a little eerie, for there to be  _nothing._  He sighed and closed his eyes.  
  
Opened them again. Still dark. No sounds, no smells, nothing. Just him and his thoughts. And he was fine. Safe. No threats. It was fine. He closed his eyes again.  
  
_Loki’s smirking face, giving orders that he couldn’t help but want to obey, asking about Natasha, always looking to the next target, nothing else there, just this, just him, nothing to ground him, no reality but this_  
  
Clint snapped his eyes open only to see more darkness, sat up to splash down again, flailing in the water before he managed footing enough to stand. He had to get out get out get out too much absence too much nothing. The silence battered him as he groped to find a wall, his own breathing loud and ragged to his ears to only sound aside from the splashing off the water and where was the fucking  _door--_  
  
Light spilled over him so suddenly he had to blink a few times to see properly, calm down again, instantly noting the figure at the door holding a hand out to him.   
  
“Banner, what—”  
  
“Come on,” Bruce said, not unkindly. “Let’s get you out of there. And dry.”

Clint grabbed his hand just to do it, touch feel see scent something  _real_  and climbed out of the chamber. Held Bruce’s hand until he was seating and sure he wasn’t shaking, while Bruce offered him a towel and a robe.  
  
“Tony decided that it should come with a fancy heart monitor,” Bruce said, pointing to a screen. “I guess to see how relaxing it was? Or wasn’t.”  
  
Clint nodded and finished towel drying his hair. “Where’s Natasha?”  
  
“She left soon after you got in.” Bruce lifted one shoulder, a half-shrug. “We figured we’d take turns waiting for you.”  
  
But Clint had seen his eyes. “You knew,” he said. Not accusing, just tired. “Why’d you suggest it if—”  
  
“I didn’t know,” Bruce said immediately. “I’d never do that to you. It’s just that now that it happened, I’m not surprised.” And there were all his truth tells. Clint nodded again.  
  
“Okay. Yeah. Okay.” His head was pounding, the panic attack not helping, adrenaline still pumping through his body  _more alert, notice all, safety threat, keep watch, keep watch_  
  
He flinched a little when Bruce touched his temple, but only minutely. A muscle twitch. “Yeah?”  
  
“It was the absence, wasn’t it,” Bruce asked. “The lack of everything. It was too much.”  
  
“Yeah. The total deprivation was…” Clint swallowed. “I can’t do that. It was a good idea. I wish it'd worked.”  
  
“I’m sorry it didn’t,” Bruce said. He took his hand away, only to rest it on Clint’s shoulder. It made Clint focus on  _Bruce_  just a little more, like he had grown sharper in his vision, all his details and him as a whole. He watched Bruce watch his own eyes and saw them flicker in that way they always did when he was about to be a genius.  
  
“You need grounding,” Bruce said, looking to his own hand on Clint’s shoulder. “A way to be able to focus on just the normal stuff again.”  
  
“I know,” Clint said. “I wish. I mean, I know, I just can’t—stop. Noticing everything.” Especially Bruce, right now. The hand a warm weight on his shoulder, his eyes bright, hair the usual mess, the way he was breathing, slow and even…Clint felt himself trying to match the breathing pattern and that was…helping. Some. He didn’t really—  
  
“I think I have another thing you could try,” Bruce said after a long moment. “But I—“ he sighed, and looked uncertain again. “Do you trust me? Be honest, here. It won’t work if you don’t trust me. I don’t blame you if you don’t, I can explain the concept to Natasha or someone else, if you—”  
  
“Hey,” Clint said, bringing up his own hand to cover Bruce’s. “If there’s a question of anyone’s trust right now, it’s mine. You, big guy, I trust. All of you. I've see you work. And if there’s anything you can do to help…” he closed his eyes and saw Loki’s face and dead, dead soldiers intertwined with colors and sounds mixing together to  _stab_  him. “Have at. Please.”

\---

Bruce kept one hand resting lightly on the small of Clint’s back the whole way up to Tony’s living room. It was a foreign feeling, being touched so casually for so long, but it was oddly comforting. Helped him focus. One feeling, one person, a help in blotting out the influx of everything else.  
  
Thor was talking animatedly to Tony, gesturing wildly as he embellished his story, no doubt about a battle of some kind. The movements were overexagerrated, the sentences always ending ending low to high, as if losing their energy before gaining it back. Thor was still upset.  
  
Steve and Natash were speaking quietly on the other side of the room. Steve was unhappy, Natasha at her blandest as she told the truth and withheld half of it. She shifted as he and Bruce entered the room, aware of them. Thor was next to notice, or, at least, the first to say thing.  
  
“Archer,” he boomed, before looking chagrined and lowering his voice. “How do you fare?”  
  
“Not so well,” Bruce murmured, before Clint could (lie) say he was fine. “We’re going to try another method.”  
  
“Wait,” Tony said. “You mean I just bought a giant new toy that is, literally, the size of a room, and it didn’t work?”  
  
“I’m sure it’ll still be of use,” Bruce said mildly. “Pepper, for one, would probably appreciate another way to relax. And I’ll be using it myself, with permission, of course.” Tony opened his mouth again, but Bruce cut him off. “And no, this wasn’t an elaborate ploy to get you to buy it for me. Clint?” Bruce’s fingers pressed a touch harder, enough for Clint to realize that he was shaking, a little.  
  
“I’m fine,” he said, the only thing he  _could_  say. Loki was still smiling behind Clint’s eyelids, Thor still reeling from the loss, and Tony was telling Bruce  _something_  silently, but Clint didn’t know the man well enough to speak crazy-genuis-with-too-much-money. “We were going to try that…other thing. I’ll see you all later,” he told everyone else, not quite sure if that was the right thing to say. Would he? Would they want to? He smiled tightly at Natasha, who glanced at Bruce before nodding back.  
  
Once out of Tony’s living room, Bruce moved to lead the way.   
  
“Do you mind going to my floor?” He asked. Clint shook his head.  
  
“Nah. So long as you’re not into art deco. Don’t think I’m up for that, right now.”  
  
Bruce smiled slightly. “That’s not something you have to worry about.”

True to his word, Bruce’s rooms were mostly done in neutral, earthy tones. There was a lot of beige and cream and brown. And not a lot of anything else.  
  
“I’m not really used to owning all that much,” Bruce said ruefully as Clint took in the empty spaces. “Being on the move, you know. Though Tony filled the wardrobe.”  
  
“Guy likes to spend money.”  
  
“I think it’s more that he likes to spend money on certain people,” Bruce said. “Normal people share candy bars. Tony hands out condos. Would you be more comfortable on a couch, or a bed?”  
  
Clint shook his head. “Sorry, what?”  
  
“I’m going to have you lie down,” Bruce elaborated. “And the point of the exercise if to relax you, calm you down, and flip you back from ‘battle’ mode into ‘normal’ mode. So ideally, you should be as comfortable as possible.”  
  
Clint shrugged and went over to the couch. Bounced up and down on it a couple times. Sprawled over it. It wasn’t a bad couch. But it didn’t feel used. He sat up again.   
  
“Uh,” he said.   
  
“Why don’t we try the bed,” Bruce suggested, so that Clint didn’t have to ask.  
  
“Okay,” Clint said instead. “…thanks.”  
  
“You can thank me if it works,” Bruce replied, leading the way into what was, presumably, his bedroom.  
  
The bed was large, with a plain blue cover, and made neatly. There was a bookshelf next to it filled with a few books and several small figurines, and a desk in the corner covered in papers, a pin-board on the wall next to it covered in more.  
  
“I have a piece of plywood underneath the mattress,” Bruce said, “but I can take it out if it isn’t comfortable.”  _He_  seemed comfortable enough, with offering Clint, practically a stranger still, the use of his time and home, but the feeling of being a trespasser was sudden and acute. Clint wondered if there was a way to suggest going back to the couch without seeming like a jerk. Or a way to excuse himself completely.   
  
While Bruce was standing there, waiting to give Clint his bed, so that Clint could be comfortable.  
  
Probably not the best way to start trying to relax.  
  
And Bruce had gotten the hesitation, because he was talking again. “We could go back to your place, if that would make it better for you?”  
  
Fuck it, he’d imposed enough. “No, this is fine. It’s great. I could use the couch, you don’t have to give up your bed.” But even with plywood, the mattress would have to have been  _slept_  on, somewhat. And now he was maybe eying the bed with longing, catching the little indents, the little wrinkles in the covers.  
  
Bruce raised an eyebrow. “Just lie down on the bed. I promise I can make it again, if you mess it up. The sooner we get started, the sooner you might get some relief.”  
  
Clint got on the bed. And flopped down. Bruce nodded and rummaged in a drawer, and then there was the sound of tearing cloth.  
  
“Here,” he said, handing Clint a strip of fabric. “Tie this over your eyes.”  
  
Clint took the fabric and looked from it to Bruce. “Just so I have this straight,” he said, “You’re blindfolding me. While I’m on your bed.”  
  
“I did offer the couch.”  
  
“Stark’s gonna have a fucking field day with this, isn’t he,” Clint said as he tied the cloth over his eyes.  
  
“He might,” Bruce allowed, “If I hadn’t already had a long talk with him about surveillance and when it is and isn’t appropriate.”  
  
“Even with, uh…” Clint waved vaguely in the air. “Big green?”   
  
“On that topic,  _he_  had a very long talk with  _me._  Lie down?” Clint did.  
  
“Can you see?” Bruce asked.  
  
“Nope,” Clint said. “Well, a little. At the bridge of my nose, there’re gaps.”  
  
“You might want to close your eyes then too,” Bruce said.  
  
“Okay,” Clint said, and did. “Now what?”  
  
“Now you don’t have your sight,” Bruce said, speaking calmly and even softer than before. “I want to focus your other sense on me. Feel me in the room, focus on my voice. We’re going to try to narrow your perception down to just one thing. Or person, in this case. And,” a slight pause, “Please let me know if you’d rather do this with Natasha.”  
  
In for a penny. “I’m all yours, doc.”  
  
“Okay. Concentrate on my voice. I want you to just focus on breathing for a minute. In and out, with me. Listen to my breath, attune yourself to it. In and out. In and out. Breath with me, okay? Try to do that. Just listen to my voice and breath.”

Clint tried to follow Bruce’s directions, breathing slow and regular. It was weird, how just the fact that he was with someone else helped him focus on the exercise. Regulating his breathing when he was on his own, he’d had to fight dozens of other observations, and forget trying to do it when with a group. But this, focusing on Bruce, was easy.  
  
Probably helped that the guy was the poster boy for calm. Y’know. Mostly.  
  
He wasn’t sure how long they spent like that, Bruce talking softly, Clint breathing with him, which was a feat in itself, getting rid of his time sense. The world narrowed to just them, in the right now, no thoughts spared on the temperature, the whisper of the ventilation, the entry and exit points of the room, nothing to poise him to fight.  
  
It felt kinda like floating, and way more pleasant than the deprivation room had been.  
  
“Clint?”  
  
“...mmn?”  
  
“How do you feel?”  
  
“Pretty good,” he mumbled, not wanting to put in any effort that might wake him up. He could seriously fall asleep like this. He hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep in ages, waking up with the nightmares and tossing for the blackness, his brain fighting the fact that he was trying to slow it down. Now he was just on the edge of dozing off. He wondered if Bruce would be insulted or complimented if he fell asleep.  
  
Bruce. Bruce’s  _bed_. Right. Didn’t really want to put the doc out anymore than he already had.  
  
Squashing an unhappy groan, Clint sat up and reached up to untie the blindfold. Blinked a couple of times to readjust as he realized that Bruce had dimmed the lights for him.   
  
“Thanks a lot,” he said, holding out a hand. “Really, thanks.” He kept his movements slow, not wanting to lose the sleepy feeling. Maybe Tony would let him crash on a couch.  
  
“No trouble,” Bruce said, taking the proffered hand and shaking it once. He moved his hand to Clint’s arm. “Come on, you look about to fall over. I’ll show you to a guest bedroom. Tony’s always got some made up.”  
  
“Won’t mind?” Clint mumbled.  
  
“Don’t think so,” Bruce said, leading him along.  
  
This was nice. It was…really nice. To know that his team cared enough to want to make him feel better, to make him comfortable, to feel at ease.  
  
His headache was receding and was completely gone by the time he was snug under the covers. He noticed the smell of the sheets, but didn’t even twitch when Bruce tucked the blankets further around him and left, shutting the lights behind him.

Natasha and Steve noticed. Thor tried to lower his voice. Tony built him a room. Bruce worked his own little magic. He was safe. No one was whispering in his ear, or in his head. No one to obey but himself, to do the work he loved to do.  
  
Yeah.  
  
For the first time in a long time, sleep wasn’t just about escaping reality anymore.


End file.
